As the Coin Falls—Tails
by SpaceSpirit
Summary: Every side of a coin has another side. - Myron Scholes


**A/N: Written for ArtisticRainey's TAG Brawl challenge that is a companion piece to ScribeofRed's "As the Coin Fall's- Heads", my Gordon to her John. To find John's perspective it will be over on Red's profile. Enjoy!**

oOo

Gordon, with a bottle of brown glass in his hand, finds John under the sun.

Its rays ignite John's hair, a soft flame in the distance, and Gordon marches toward him with what's supposed to be a confident saunter. Maybe it comes off joltier or with less purpose, but nobody will ever know because nobody is watching. Especially not John. So Gordon's not sure why he does it.

His bare feet burn on the sand as he glides but it's barely noticeable. This is _his_ territory. The moment John stepped onto this beach, he was at a disadvantage. Besides, Gordon's veins are burning even hotter than his feet, and that has nothing to do with the sun.

John's still wearing his land-based uniform, tightly bound up in blue material that looks strangely false against the expanse of natural blue before him. Or perhaps it looks false on John, looks _wrong_ on John, and Gordon's only just starting to see that. His space uniform fits like a glove; this one doesn't seem to fit at all.

Gordon moves in beside him, but still John just stands there. His arms hang by his sides, staring out at the ocean with enough distaste that Gordon feels personally offended. Whether John's in some sort of trance or he's purposefully ignoring him, he can't really tell. Toes curl in the sand as he assumes it's the latter.

"You want a drink, John?" Gordon manages to ask it without a lick of the saltiness he knows should be glued to those words. Instead, he thrusts the bottle toward his brother's chest, a cool salve against burning heat. "Come on, I know you want it."

John takes a while before he looks down at it, but when he does, it's not with the desired result. He simply lifts a shoulder ever so slightly as he pushes the bottle away. "I know I don't."

"Come _on_ —"

"I'm not in the mood."

"For a drink?"

John's eyes slide towards him. Solid jade, unconscious of the sun. "For you _._ "

Gordon swallows back a _that makes two of us_ and offers a grin. It's fleeting, like the beams of light that are struggling to stay alive as they fall behind wisps of clouds. Gordon lifts the bottle in form of a salute before going to crack it open, twisting the bottle cap with a hiss and a snap. "Virg thinks it's going to rain."

"We're going to talk about the weather? That's a first."

Gordon clicks his tongue against his teeth in efforts of keeping things light, playfully condemning, even when the twister of disdain sits right on the edge of his lips. "Apparently a lot of firsts happened today."

A brief gust of warm wind tugs at Gordon's loose shirt, shifting strands of hair in front of his eyes.

The comment lingers. Eventually, John takes the bait. "It wasn't my first."

"It was."

"It wasn't." John's words are calm, but not laced with any sort of gentleness. No, it's the sort of deceptive calm that acts as the moat around the castle wall. "In case you don't understand what first means, it tends to be something, in this case an experience, that come before all others—"

Gordon hears the undertone of callous patronization and finds himself with one clenched fist. "Good to know."

"Yes, and you should know that I've almost lost people's lives up in _Five_ before. In fact, I have lost people's lives up in _Five_ —watched them die right in front of me. So today wasn't a first at all, and it wasn't any different."

Gordon raises the bottle to his lips—just to let John think he won this moment of silence—before continuing. "Ah, well, no. Down here it's definitely different."

"No, it's _not_ —" A slip of irritation comes and goes as John's fingers scrape up the side of his uniform. Gordon watches as he straightens them, lets his shoulders broaden. John looks up toward the sky with the smallest shake of his head and takes control of the conversation. "I don't think it's going to rain."

Gordon shrugs casually, stealing the reins back just as quickly as they were taken. "Well, that will be the second time you're wrong today, then."

John graces Gordon with no reaction other than falling silent. He just watches the waves with eyes that are ever-controlled, not letting anything through the gaps Gordon so desperately wants to infiltrate.

Because it _is_ different. Almost losing someone on the ground compared to almost losing someone up above. It must be different, surely it is. Today, John had to get down on his hands and knees, had to reassure a dying woman that she'd be all right, had to put pressure on an open wound, _surely_ that's different than hovering next to a screen where humans are pixels and pixels are, essentially, nothing.

But John gives no sign that it _is_ different. Gordon's upper lip tries to pull into a snarl but he hides it by drawing the bottle back to his mouth. Perhaps humans are pixels to him down here too.

John's never had to deal with this before. Land rescues? A few. Gordon? All the time. A mistake almost causing the loss of a life right before his very _eyes_? Never before. Yet he treats it just the same. Unfazed, unmoved, and Gordon _hates_ it.

His fist tightens around the bottle as his forearm involuntarily flexes. There's some sort of frozen ocean inside his brother and all he wants to do is shatter it, because by rights, John shouldn't be as tranquil as the sea before them. By rights, Gordon should be, because he's done this before. Too many times.

"Good thing Virg arrived in time to save her, though, huh?" Gordon's left foot moves ever so slowly against grains of sand as whatever scorn he was holding back manages to make it past his armored guard. "Otherwise your mistake… Well. It wouldn't just be a mistake, would it? It would be—"

"I didn't make a _mistake,_ " John's battalion slips as his head snaps toward Gordon. The way he raises his chin and clenches his jaw is only there for a moment before reinforcements are called and John's—once again—all angles and no lines. It snaps back toward the sea. "We can talk about this at debrief. I'd prefer not to go over it again."

"Go over what? Your mistake?"

"It wasn't a mistake. If any mistakes were made, they were by you."

"For what? For just being there or for trying to save a life?"

"The former."

Heat flares through Gordon and it's not just his toes that dig into sand but his nails that scrape along the glass of the bottle. He tilts it in John's direction like an accusing finger. "I'm the one that's more experienced down here, you know that. If you had listened to me, that woman wouldn't have been in danger at all _._ At _all_ , John."

"No." John's mouth pulls tight. "You're right. She would have been dead."

A growl slips from his grasp. Where Gordon wants to lash out, John is composed, _dignified_. A fuse begins to burn inside him, catching the sun's rays as though a magnifying glass sits above his heart.

Waves crash upon the shore, water hissing and spitting as it touches heated sand. Breathless minutes steal upon them like phantoms, minutes where John no doubt thinks that he's won

Once, in a world that's never seemed so far away, it had been said that Gordon and John should not work together. It was Dad who had said it, born from frustration after a failed science experiment resulted in spilt brine shrimp, wet reports, a little bit of yelling, and a whole lot of time out.

John had mourned the loss of his project, Gordon mourned the loss of his pets, and neither said a word to one another for two days straight. Then John bought Gordon a goldfish, they whipped up a papier-mâché volcano, and everything was forgotten. Except Dad's comment.

That stuck with Gordon only because he wanted to deny it and, up until now, he thought he had been. Though perhaps what they do every day, rescue and communication, perhaps that doesn't really count as working _with_ each other. Not when John can switch off his hologram whenever he pleases and Gordon can turn down comms.

After today, after he's actually worked with John—with both their feet touching soil, with only the smallest room to move, with tension coiled so tightly in the air he thought it might physically snap—only now does he realize that Dad was right.

"She wouldn't have been dead…" Gordon says slowly, lifting his head. Because it's not his fault, not this time. He's old enough to refuse being manipulated into thinking he was to blame all along. No. Gordon won't be John's excuse. "I said we should have gone down that tunnel."

"Yes." John's nod is brief, matter of fact. Still he refuses to look at him. "Go down the tunnel with the mouth that was threatening to collapse. Good idea."

"It was a better idea than waiting in the cavern that _did_ collapse—"

"It was supposed to be the safer option. Scott agreed."

Gordon's arm flies outward, bottle with it, and he turns to face John fully even if his brother insists that the sea if far more interesting. "I don't care if Scott agreed—it was _me_ down there with you, not him. It was me that could see everything, _not_ him. I made proper checks, John, I always do. But you all overrode me in favor of staying put."

"It was the safer option at the time."

"Well, look how that turned out!" Gordon scoffs, throwing his head over his shoulder in hopes of seeing someone there to witness this incredulousness as well as him. But there's no one, it's just Gordon and John and miles of sand, so his head turns back to this marble statue. "With a woman who bled half to death. Wow, Mr. Safety, good going there with that one—"

A hand flies into Gordon's chest and it's not exactly delicate. It holds there for a moment, just as John's eyes hold his. Frustration flashes through them with the briefness of the seagull that flies overhead, any light dying as John pushes off and turns to walk back up the beach with a mutter. "I'm not doing this."

It annoys Gordon even more that he's like _this,_ able to walk away, able to run back to what's essentially an upgraded satellite and hide from any consequences—emotional apparently included—while Gordon's stuck _here_. Stuck on the ground thinking about that woman, about how close they came to losing her, and how they could have avoided that completely. He alone is left stuck with the knowledge that, even after all his experience, Gordon's still the bottom of the damn food chain.

"Where are you going?" Gordon finds himself following John up the beach, stumbling in the sand before he can grab onto that uniform arm, tug it to finally _face_ him. "We're not done here until you admit that I was right. You should have taken us down that route—"

"No, Gordon." John tears his arm away and stares him down, eyes burning hot as grains of sand. "I'm not playing this game of superiority with you over a woman's life _._ "

"Superiority?" Gordon almost splutters over the word and now both hands are flung out in a gesture that screams skepticism. "Are you _serious_? Says the guy that thought, oh, even though I've only done this about ten times, I'm right because I'm older and smarter and a control freak—"

"You're putting words into my mouth," John's teeth come down hard, perhaps to prove it's not a mouth that likes words that infiltrate. He draws in a staggered breath to keep his tone calm, collected. "I did what I thought was right."

"Without even consulting me." Gordon wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. "I get it if it's not as your brother, but as your _co-_ worker we should have at least weighed up the options together. Instead, you just brushed me off!"

John raises an eyebrow ever so slightly and repeats, "I did what I thought was right."

Gordon's hiss is low and probably uncalled for, but at the moment, he doesn't care. "What about what I thought was right? Is that just automatically wrong because it's _me_? You should have trusted me to know what I was doing."

"I'd prefer to be sure than to take risks."

"Right, to bet on yourself is to be sure, and to bet on me is to take a risk."

"We're not horses and this is not a competition—"

"I _know_ that, John!" Gordon's yell echoes around the bay but it ricochets back to him in efforts to make him feel stupid. Well, it's John that makes him feel stupid. John with his slight hook of his lips, with the height that just keeps making Gordon feel younger. He sticks out his chest a little in efforts to combat this. "You almost lost a woman's life today, John—"

"We."

"Yeah, whatever, _we_ did, and you're standing there like everything went fine—"

"Everything did go fine. We lost no one. I don't see why you always dwell like this."

" _Always_?" Gordon's voice cracks, but it's not with sorrow, it's with rage. Rage is a warrior who fights without foresight, and right now, Gordon's precaution is out the window. "How the hell would you even know? Are you ever here to see?"

John's eyes flick upward in a half-roll and he goes to leave again, but Gordon's hand is quick to clamp back down on his arm, fingers tightening. "Besides, why is dwelling a _bad_ thing?" he spits. "Isn't it, oh, I don't know, human _?_ "

"Get off me." This time, John's words are a snarl as his hand hits Gordon's arm away with more force than expected.

A flicker of satisfaction fires through him as finally John does something that makes Gordon feel normal. Now it's Gordon's turn to try his hand at patronization. "Aren't we supposed to dwell? Won't it make us learn from our _mistakes_?"

"I didn't make a mistake." John takes a step toward him, and it's the way he casts his shadow over Gordon that sets it all off.

Gordon discards the bottle from his hand, scattering it onto his beloved beach without even a second thought. Both hands rise instead to John's chest, clenching uniform material tightly. "You did. You made a mistake and she almost died. You're not used to your actions having those sorts of consequences, huh? You're used to floating in your impenetrable palace—"

John's own hands fly up to grab at Gordon's wrists. "Dammit, Gordon—"

"—with not a care in the world! But _this_ time you got real, human, blood on your hands. I would have thought that would change something—"

"I'm giving you five seconds to let go of me."

Gordon clenches tighter and steps closer, bridging into the personal space that he's usually allowed to enter. This time he has to invade. But he's not giving up on that rise in John. He's seeing glimpses of it, that's what John's supposed to be feeling, this horrible, gut-wrenching fury that shackles the spirit then tears it apart. "Perhaps it will make you think twice about the orders you shout down from the heavens, think twice about the scornful looks you give me— _all_ of us when we can't deal with things like you do because it _is_ different down here—"

"I said get the hell off me, Gordon!" John's lip flatten, eyes dipping to what looks like grey as a cloud passes over the sun. His hands grip tightly on Gordon's wrists as he tries to push him off. " _Now_."

"Why? So you can go back up there and _not_ dwell on it? So you can shut it all off like normal—"

"Don't you think I see what you're trying to do?" John's quick snap commands more attention than any of Gordon's yells. "The first time you almost lost someone, you spent, what? Sixteen hours crying in Dad's office. Well, I don't need that or you—"

" _Sixteen_ hours?" Gordon scoffs to hide the hurt he feels at the comment. "You're not usually one for gross overstatements."

John's fingers wrap even tighter around his wrists before finally tearing Gordon's hands from material, pushing him backward. Gordon stumbles but remains upright, refusing to break eye contact. "All right, twelve, whatever." John's tone slips from controlled to mocking in a heartbeat, laced with frustration. "You needed him and Scott and whoever else held your hand, but I'm _fine._ I'll deal with this on my own. I don't need you to lure me out—"

"Held my _hand_?" Gordon mouth twists because for some reason, that hurts most of all. John thinking that needing someone else is weakness, childish, when it's so hard for Gordon to admit it in the first place. It sends sparks cascading through him as the fuse reaches the end of the line. "You know what? Fuck you, John—"

"Oh look, the kid's got a grown mouth on him."

Gordon's hands tremble as he raises them again, only this time to push John backward. "Shut the hell up! This isn't about me—"

"Isn't it always?"

"No! It's _not_. We're talking about you." Gordon steps closer again to his brother and he throws his comment up, a coin in the air, watching it spin, holding out for it to land in John's hand. "You'd only admit your mistake if she died, wouldn't you? Because that's the kind of person _you_ are—"

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"Everything you do is holy and correct until something really goes to shit, and then down here we're the ones that have to deal with consequences—"

"You're walking a damn fine line right now, Gordon."

"Well, it's a line someone needs to walk. What should I be saying instead? All hail the untouchable John?"

"What are you—"

"You're so brave and mighty to feel nothing in the face of death, you must teach me your worldly ways."

"Shut _up_ , Gordon—"

"But then you'd have no one to compare yourself with, no one to look down upon and think _pathetic_ , he can't hold himself together—"

"I'd _never_ do that."

"Apparently that's the new smart and sensible, though, isn't it? Oops, I almost killed a woman, but I didn't. So let's not talk about what I did wrong—"

"For the last time, I did nothing wrong _._ "

"John, you just stood there!" Gordon's shout rings out strong and true and he pushes with all his might for it to register in that unrelenting mind. The mind that refuses to see mistakes even when they're laid out on the ground in front of it in the form of a dying woman. "You made a mistake in choosing to stay put, and when damage was caused by that choice, you couldn't handle it. You just stood there doing nothing, watched her like she wasn't even there, like she didn't matter, like it was a shame we'd run into collateral damage—"

John's fist strikes Gordon's jaw before he even sees him move. The force of it makes Gordon stagger backward, one shaky knee bending beneath his weight, but he digs feet into sand to stay upright. A stunned hand rises to the side of his face as pain burns across his cheekbone.

He looks down as a slither of blood drips onto sand.

One drop.

Two.

There's a heavy pause as John stands there, fists clenched, chest rising and falling sharply.

Slowly, Gordon stretches both arms out wide and raises his head. "Look at that, ladies and gentlemen," he calls, turning his head as though addressing the audience, or perhaps it's to hide the way his eyes water. Gordon's last comment is the final spin on the coin before it lands. "He feels something."

"Of course I _feel something_ , you—" John's hiss evaporates into fragments of sand as Gordon turns back to him. There must be something written on his face, because John's eyes widen, fists unclench, and he's the one to take the step forward, only this time it's to grasp Gordon's elbow. "Shit, shit, _shit_ , Gordon—" The other hand rises to move Gordon's out of the way, to tilt his head gently beneath his jaw, lifting it toward the sun.

Gordon bats at him but gets nowhere, finding his hand just wants to cling to John's wrist as he swallows against the clog of shock wrapping tightly around his throat. He pushes past it, like he always does. "It's fine—"

"I-I didn't…" John's eyes get stuck studying the small trail of blood that leaks from the side of Gordon's mouth. Gently he eases his hand away and looks down at it as though he's not quite sure it's his. "Gordon, I…" John struggles for words, which isn't usually something John does. "I'm not what you make me out to be. I'm _not_ , I swear…I didn't mean to…"

It is desperation and panic and vulnerability that storms John's castle walls. Gordon hears it and understands, because that same war is raging inside him; he just needed to know he wasn't the only one.

Gordon says it quietly but he's sure John still catches on. "Yeah, well, I probably deserved that—"

"You _more_ than deserved it—"

"Just _talk_ to me, John." Gordon still manages to turn it into a snap. He doesn't care if John hit him _._ If it means he won't take it out on himself later, then it's fine. Because that's what John does, he'll hide himself away, scream at the stars, and hate himself for making a mistake. That's what Gordon never wants him to do, because Gordon knows all too well how it feels to fight nothing but his mind.

That time in Dad's office—which was an hour at the most—Gordon hadn't cried, he had yelled, he had thrown things; he unleashed every injustice he ever knew upon his father's listening ears. That helped him through the first time, but John doesn't have their father for this, and neither does Gordon, not any longer. So maybe he needs someone else.

Waves roll over thoughts just as heavy clouds roll over the sky, leaving them doused in dappled light. John leaves Gordon hanging in the silence, _staring_ at him. Pain threatens to leak from Gordon's jaw toward his temple so he raises his hand to rub it away. John winces.

The lightest of raindrops begin to fall, dark upon sand, wet beneath Gordon's eyes.

"You were right," John says quietly, and he reaches back out, thumb wiping that slip of blood away from the corner of Gordon's mouth. "I was wrong about the rain. That makes two mistakes today."

And that's all Gordon needs to hear. Those words that are always so hard for John to admit are splashed open with a simple fall of rain.

"Three, actually." Gordon offers a small smile through the ache, as though his tone has been this casual and relaxed the entire time. "Scott's going to kill you when he gets home."

John responds by drawing himself back, by lifting that head a little higher, by offering Gordon a goldfish in return for his volcano. "He'll probably thank me."

Gordon snorts. "Or he might get jealous."

John's small smile flitters briefly, and when he looks at Gordon, it's sadness that spirals through those eyes. Solid jade now lets too much light in, and they study him with too much intent. Gordon can't tell if it's sorrow for that woman or pity for him. "You know what I could really do with now? That drink."

"Yeah." Gordon's chuckle falls as lightly as the rain. "And I could do with some ice."

John fails to hide his flinch just as Gordon fails to hide the way he wipes at his eyes. But perhaps that's fine, perhaps they shouldn't try hard _to_ hide.

So they walk, under the hidden sun, with less sand between them and castle gates that are willing to lower their drawbridge. Gordon's not sure if they'll talk or how. But it doesn't really matter, not with John and Gordon, because even though they live on different sides of the coin, there's always similar ground beneath where that coin falls.


End file.
